Twilight
by VKlepto
Summary: When she wakes up, the morning light cuts harshly through the window in the stone and highlights the fact that she is alone in her bed, in her life, and even though the people in her twilight visions are there for the taking, she can't have that.


When Minerva lay in bed late at night, curled into a ball beneath the covers like the cat she could alternately be, and her mind drifted into the limbo between reality and dreams, she frequently visited the same place.

In her place, her twilight home, she would sit beneath a tartan blanket before a fire place on a large armchair with a book in her hands and her glasses low on her nose. She would listen to the fire crackle. She would sip the small cup of tea by her side. Occasionally her gaze would drift from the words on the page to the bay window in the corner, and she would watch the snow fall, soft and white and down, scintillating in the moonlight. Minerva never knew what she was reading. Sometimes in the morning she would try to remember, because for some reason it seemed important. She would recall little words, brief sentences; the significance eluded her. She never could figure it out, and by breakfast she usually forgot -- but when she remembered, it seemed like the vital thing in all the world.

As her dream night would go on, she would hear the door open and close with a soft _click._ The quiet _pat pat pat_ of soft leather shoes against the hardwood floors would follow, and then a pair of hands would cover over her eyes. Even in the dark provided by the shade of his palms, she recognized the lines there well as she would have recognized his face.

"Guess who."

"Barty Crouch, you scoundrel," she would purr every time, and a quiet gasp would sound behind her, though she could her his smile even in that brief noise.

"Not quite."

"Elphias Dodge, then?" The sound of disgruntlement that sounded from behind her was met with, "really, you can't expect me to know the names of _all_ of my lovers."

He would laugh, and step around the arm chair, removing his hands from her eyes only when his lips touched softly her noise. His spectacles would always chink charmingly against hers.

"I have competition, then?"

"You might," she responded sharply, sitting up straighter and fixing him with a mildly disapproving expression in her keen green eyes, "if you continue to arrive home at such an hour."

"I am sorry, Minerva." Albus would return sincerely, kissing her lips and brushing a tendril of hair from her face, tucking it into the twist of the braid that hung over her left shoulder.

"Even Severus saw fit to come home before eleven."

"Severus came by?" He would ask, sounding pleased, his silvery brows lifting.

"Of course he came by, Albus. He comes by every evening for dinner. You would know, if you were ever here." She would pause and push her glasses up with one finger, a motion which Albus smiled at, finding it endlessly endearing. "I made your favorite."

He would stare at her.

She would stare back.

He would angle his head downwards slightly, peering sharply at her from over his half-moon glasses, his deep blue eyes probing and prodding in that searching expression that had made even Tom Riddle nervous as a schoolboy. She would roll her eyes and relent.

"All right, all right," she would admit, leaning towards him and kissing his furrowed brow with her hands on either side of his face. It was at this point that the book would slip from her lap. This always bothered her, but she never quite knew why. "I had one of the Hogwarts house elves bring us something from the school. But it _is_ your favorite. And I went through the trouble to procure it."

"An action which I appreciate fully." He assured her, chuckling softly; Minerva McGonagall in a scene so quintessentially feminine and domestic as making dinner for her men was so ill-fitting to her character that he couldn't help but laugh. "But you know how the Minister gets."

"And you, sir, know how _I _get."

"All too well." He would say with a smile, and her reprove would morph in a soft grin as he kissed the side of her neck. He would stand, take a sip of her tea, and she would grab his hand as she stood to lead him into the kitchen, where she would proceed to heat him a heaping plate of leftovers. They would talk pleasantly as he ate, she sipping her tea, and when he was finished he would help her clean up without the help of magic, between playful touches and fond kisses that would conclude in a slow trek up the stairs.

They would pause outside of their bedroom door. He would push her away suddenly, gently, breathing heavily as he pried his lips from hers, extricating his hand carefully from her hair. His eyes would be dark as the night sky.

"I ought to see to Harry before we go to bed."

She would nod, and then Albus would resume kissing her once more. After a moment, she would push him away and remind him of what he had been planning to do. Minerva would peel herself from the door he had pressed her against, and shove him down the hall. Begrudgingly, he would oblige.

Minerva would watch his back until he disappeared into Harry's room. She would smile to herself, straighten her dressing gown, and disappear into the room she and Albus shared. And then she would crawl beneath the covers and wait for him to return to her.

And then reality would set in for the moment before she finally fell asleep. Every night, she had the same vision. This fleeting, idyllic image where she and Albus were together. Where the boys Albus had salvaged from the jaws of hell could exist under his phoenix's wing, could have both a mother and a father who would listen, love, and care for them. They could be a glorious family, she would think upon remembering the dream.

But when she wakes up, the morning light cuts harshly through the window in her stone wall and shines on the staunch cotton of her bed sheets and highlights the fact that she is alone in her room, in her bed, in her life, and even though the people in her twilight visions are there, willing and close, for the taking, she knows she can't even have that. She knows that they can't ever have that. She knows that Albus is too much a martyr, that Harry has too much left to do, and that Severus is far too damaged.

So she focuses on the details when she thinks back on the dream instead o f the feelings. What book was she reading again?


End file.
